The Damage Done
by VoiDreamer
Summary: [SPOILERS for S4E3]: "He can still feel the coffin lid in his hands, the weight of the facing he slid over the proverbial body of their relationship, laying it to rest in that room where it had just died. Where he had just killed it. Had he truly thought he had won?" A look at what happens at Molly/Sherlock after The Final Problem
1. Wreckage

AN: What a finale! I was completely floored by the episode but felt there were some loose threads that could use some tying. Here's my attempt to wrap up the one most on my mind - the relationship between Molly and Sherlock following that explosive phone call.

Should be just a few chapters to explore the aftermath, but we'll start first with how it begins.

Please note that the following has SPOILERS for Season 4 - Episode 3. Please do not read if you have not already see it.

As Eurus says - context is everything.

For those who want a bit more - please listen to "Addicted to a Certain Lifestyle" by David Arnold (part of the Sherlock soundtrack).

* * *

There are many things she knows about him, many things _Molly_ knows about _Sherlock_.

She might not have his powers of deduction, but because she's fancied him almost from the first moment they met, her _feelings_ have meant that she notices the little details that make him unique.

Years of humiliations and grim realization have also allowed her to acknowledge his shortcomings with honesty.

Manipulative, callous, he is reckless with the affections of his close friends.

She watches as time and again he tests the mettle of John Watson, of his brother and even herself. Of her, he demands cooperation, and later, her unquestioned loyalty. Each time she does as he asks, giving selflessly to the point of foolishness.

But with each offering of herself, she gains a gift in return.

Hope, each time she is rewarded with just a bit more, that Sherlock is changing, _learning_ to be a better, _kinder_ person. And with each year, he becomes more like the sort of friend she is happy to have.

Odd though he has remained, her heart is a constant thing, and she takes comfort now in their mutual understanding, their respect for one another.

But this...

"Leave me alone." She croaks, voice wavering, wanting in that instant to hang up the phone, hang up on _him_ forever.

She has withstood more than her fair share of cruelties but this feels like a step too far, a step off of a cliff edge into the heart of a great storm.

"Please, no! Don't hang up! Do _not_ hang up!"

Panic from him, but it makes little sense.

 _How could he have made such a request of her?_

"Why are you doing this to me?" Hurt and anger, it is a betrayal of trust to the grossest degree. She presses him, "Why are you making fun of me?"

"Please, I swear, you just need to listen to me." His anxiousness is palpable, enough that she is caught between concern for him and her own feelings.

"Molly, this is for a case. It's a sort of experiment."

His admission is all she needs for her concern to evaporate, and her response is immediate, stern. "I'm _not_ an experiment, Sherlock."

"No –" She can practically hear him mentally backpedal, "I _know_ you're not an experiment, you're my friend. We're _friends,_ but please... just say those words for me."

"Please don't do this." She swallows, but her throat had gone dry, painfully so.  
Gripping the counter until her knuckles turn white, she repeats herself, "J-just don't do it."

"It's very important." The voice on the end of the line is tense but encouraging, unwavering in its request. "I can't say why. But I promise you, it is."

She wants to scream, she wants to cry so badly that her lungs are burning from the strain.

"I can't say it. _I can't_." Shaking, she wipes one hand across her eyes, dashing the single tears that's managed to escape. "I can't say that to _you_."

"Of course you can! Why can't you?" And for a terrible moment he sounds just as he did all those years ago, as horribly unaware of her as he did that evening of the Christmas party.

"You _know_ why." The words are bare whispers pushed past tortured lips.

"No, I don't know. Why?" And now she knows he is being intentionally cruel, for had he not deduced her heart on so many other occasions?

And with that realization comes anger, just enough to bite, to give her strength, "Of course you do."

"Please, just say it." He says again, voice wrung almost hoarse from the repetition.

"I can't, not to-" Her courage deserts her mid sentence.

"Why?"

Demanding, asking the question to something he already knows the answer to.

 _Why is he doing this?_

 _Why?_

Her eyes sting even more, filling all corners until it is impossible to see past her own nose.

"Because..." She tries to explain, but the hurt is too much, "Because it's..."

And then it happens. The pain, the words, all of it tumble from her lips like water through a cracked dam.

"Because it's true, Sherlock. It's always been _true_."

The silence that follows is too long, and yet perhaps not long enough. She has only just steadied herself when he says, with a calm cruelty, "If it's true then just say it anyway."

The words, for so smart a man, are so ridiculous she almost laughs, "You _bastard_."

"Say. It. Anyway." The words are sharp, unrelenting, as if he means to truly drive her from the cliff-edge and into the storm, though for what reasons she still does not know.

She won't go down without a fight, she _won't_.

"You say it." She says, challenging him, betting for once that she can stop him, stop the hurt before it strikes at the most vulnerable part of her.

"You say it _first_." She insists.

 _Please, please_ _let him be done with it. Let it be over._

"What?" His confusion gives her courage.

"Say it." She repeats herself, raising the stakes when she adds, "Say it like you mean it."

With every word she pushes him back, aims to divert this path onto which he has thrown them both. The silence that follows is perfect, quiet, save for his breathing.

 _Let this be it._

She believes she has finally silenced him for good when a shaky inhale echoes through the receiver.

"I-"

One word and she feels the foundation at her feet tremble. Her heart is pounding, but it is not excitement or affection that courses so violently through her veins. Is he truly going to do this? Dread, icy and cold as death, has her squarely in its grip.

"I love you."

He speaks quickly, and thus the blow is a sudden sharp one. But though she finds herself still on her feet, she has not yet fully recovered when he says again.

"I _love_ you."

A second time, unbidden, and it is this one that _devastates._ For she can tell the difference in his voice, and his softness now rends flesh more thoroughly that the shock of that first time.

Shutting her eyes tightly, she pulls the phone away, desperately grasping at the shards of her heart that are rapidly splintering in every direction.

 _How could he?_

The world swims before her eyes as she sags in her place.

"Molly?" He is still on the line, desperate, _"_ Molly, _please."_

And though she forces her eyes open, she sees nothing, feels _nothing_ except for the raw wound in her chest where her heart once was.

And so she says the words, the _truth_ , though she does not understand why he has pushed them both so very far.

"I love you."

She bares that most precious part of her soul even though it costs her _everything_.

The phone goes dead not a second later, and with it Molly's strength.

Sliding to the floor, there is not even time to hide her face in her hands before the tears begin to fall in earnest, and the sobs that she had kept locked in her lungs expand with the force to leave her shuddering on the ground.

And though the east wind, the storm, breaks later that day, it has already claimed its victims.

The damage is done, and there among the rest of the wreckage is Molly Hooper's heart.


	2. Devastation

AN: Thanks for the lovely responses all. I think it'll be 4 chapters total so we're halfway through.

Please see here a little peek at the Sherlock side of things.

* * *

Sherlock has not gone to see her _since_ , nor has he even tried.

At first it is easy enough to do. He must resolve the situation with Eurus, and then there is the matter of repairing 221B. Wallpaper, the smiley face, he allows all of it to _matter_ so that he need not worry about anything else. Later, he takes the time to reacquaint himself with Rosie, to enjoy her company when John begins to bring her around once more.

But the longer he waits, the more transparent he feels.

His meeting with his sister has changed something within him, and the memory lingers.

 _"I love you."_

He can still hear Molly's choked voice in his ear, unwillingly divulging the secret he has manipulated her into sharing. Using her, the way that Eurus used so many in Sherrinford.

He had thought he was saving her, he thought he _had_ saved her.

There was a common phrase for it, he knew, something about being cruel to be kind. But when he had announced his victory, he had been proven wrong in the worst sort of way.

In the end, Eurus' cold smile, the mocking in her voice was a kind caress compared to the violent self-revulsion he experienced in the aftermath.

Sitting in an exact replica of his usual chair, Sherlock stares down at his hands and takes a long ragged exhale as he relives that short sharp drop from relief to despair.

 _"I won, I saved Molly Hooper."_

 _Eurus scoffed, "Saved her? Look at what you did to her_ _\- look at what you did to_ yourself _. All those complicated little emotions, I_ _lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock, it destroys you every time. "_

Flexing his hands, Sherlock tries to unseat the weight of his unease, his guilt, his memories-

 _He can still feel it, the coffin lid in his hands, the weight of that facing he knows very well though he's touched it for only a moment. Touched it just long enough to slide it over the proverbial body of his relationship with Molly, laying it to rest in that room, that coffin, where it had just died. Where he had just killed it._

 _Had he truly thought he had won?_

 _He stands there while around him the world continues on._

 _John and Mycroft have already started towards the door, towards the next room, unsteady but moving, focused once more on the task at hand._

 _But as he turns to join them, as his hand slides over that wooden surface and catches on that metal plaque, I Love You, something breaks, something_ shatters _._

 _"Sherlock?"_

 _John has only a moment to call out before it_ _boils over, levels him with an intensity that drives all thought from his mind save one._

 _"No!"_

 _Regret and denial, rage. The intensity of_ emotion _buries in his bones, in the very fiber of his muscles until all he can do is act and move and -_

 _The coffin_ explodes _with his first strike at its surface. But he does not stop there, and piece by piece he_ _tries to break apart that symbol of his failure, the reminder of what he has both done and failed to do for Molly Hooper._

 _For in that moment he can recall with perfect clarity the cruelties she has suffered at his hands, pains he has inflicted when he was a crueler man, a colder one._

 _He thought he had changed, thought that he, for better or worse, was becoming more human._

 _And though around him echoes the sound of the coffin breaking, there is another noise, a guttural_ _sound of a wounded animal, a screaming denial that Sherlock finds of greatest comfort. It is not until he finds himself on his knees, chest heaving and throat sore_ _that he realizes that he has been the one screaming._

"Sherlock?"

His throat is still tight when his eyes clear, heart still pounding with the realization that even now he dare not define. But as he looks towards the speaker, he realizes he is no longer seated in his chair, he is not even at 221B.

Rather, his feet have carried him to where his memories have lingered, and though he has the key in his pocket, it seems he has knocked instead.

"Sherlock?"

She stand before him, pale but upright, weathered but not broken. He observes the hundreds of little creases on her person and wonders which ones are because of him.

"Hello, Molly." He speaks slowly, softly as if he fears these words, _his words_ , still have the power to harm her.

"May I please come in?"


	3. Cracks

AN: Thanks to everyone for their interest in this fic!

I had a long think about this chapter and ended up writing a few versions until I settled on this.

Hope this gives everyone some food for though :)

Enjoy!

Voi

* * *

There is a distance between them he does not know how to bridge.

It's different than the one before, the one he had grown up accepting, between himself and other, normal, people. This distance, the one that sits between himself and Molly, is a gulf far broader than what stands between Sherrinford and the mainland, far greater a height than his fall from the roof of St Barts.

 _Perhaps it is even deeper than the water that ultimately swallowed Redbeard._

It terrifies him. And while the lack of water, the lack of tears in her eyes, should reassure him, he finds that her silence is even more uncomfortable. He wants to fill it, that quiet, even if it is with the sound of his voice since his mind has fallen curiously blank in the interim.

Oh he has _questions_ , but the power of deductions seems to have abandoned him for the moment. Not that it would help.

 _What would he say? What could he possibly say?_

She is not the woman she once was, so easily taken in by him and his compliments, so free with her affections that she forgives him at his very worst.

Molly has grown in their time together, become stronger and sharper, but not cruel.

 _Never_ cruel.

Sherlock swallows as he follows her inside, hesitating for a moment as he considers the coat rack in her foyer. He's only just decided against assuming that her hospitality is still his to have when she stops beside him.

Glancing at her, seeing her expectant expression, he feels his throat tighten.

"Sherlock?"

 _Of course._

Fumbling with his scarf and coat, it takes him a second longer than it usually does to find the hook, to settle the thick wool where it belongs, beside her own. Unsteady, he follows her when she starts towards the back of the house, breezing into the kitchen to make tea.

And though he knows it to be a coincidence, he notes that her cellphone is where he last saw it, there on the counter, abandoned.

Taking a seat, his usual seat, he waits while she puts the finishing touches on the kettle, continuing to sneak glances at that phone. The unchanging image is interspersed with flashes of the memory, and Sherlock finds his hands have curled into fists at his side when Molly finally hands him a steaming mug.

"Thank you." The words are automatic, a ritual that they have shared on many occasions, but not before on a day like this.

She nods as she goes back to squeezing the lemon for her own cup, but says nothing. Instead she waits, allowing the silence to fill and fill until he can stand it no longer.

"You are taking this rather well." He tries not to sound accusatory, but he feels shaken and she looks almost untouched, more serene than he's seen her in a very long time.

"Am I?" Her smile is faint, but there is something bitter there at the corners of her mouth, a shadow.

"You look," he strains for the word, " _normal_."

He watches, but her hands don't even tremble when she picks up her mug and puts it to her lips.

"You expected me to be different, Sherlock?" Her brows rise ever so slightly.

"After that phone call-" He sighs, "Molly, I came here because I wanted to speak with you about it. I want to do more than just explain."

"You could have done that over the phone, like last time." Patient, and yet, there's something there, an undercurrent in her voice that Sherlock is not quite equipped to identify.

 _"Emotional context, Sherlock." Eurus' voice mocks him in her sing-song way, "It gets you every time."_

"I wanted to see you." He insists, quietly, seriously.

"See me?" Molly repeats, frowns, "I was told there were cameras in my flat. So you saw me last time. Is there something special this time?"

His brows tighten for only a moment, and he asks, "John?"

"No. Your brother."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock's surprise is tinged with suspicion, "Why?"

"He said he felt responsible." She turned to the side, so that Sherlock could only look at her profile, "That it, all of it, was because you were trying to protect me, _somehow_."

She shrugged, "It makes no sense if I'm being honest. But I suppose that's what I get for being your friend."

"It was more than that though." Sherlock protests. He knows how discreet Mycroft can be, but Sherlock's presence here, in her apartment now, is about more than just explaining the circumstances.

"Molly, the reason I'm here, what I said-"

"I don't want to talk about it." Molly cuts him off, a steel edge coloring her usual dulcet tone, "I've forgiven you. Isn't that enough?"

 _Is it?_

Sherlock admits there's a loosening in his chest, but it's not enough.

"No." Standing, he catches as a flash of hurt crosses her face and feels his stomach clench in response, "I'm sorry, Molly. But it's not."

"Why, Sherlock?" And there at last is the crack in her implacable facade, "What more do you want from me?"

He swallows, and she shakes her head as she continues on, "I've had all I can take. I thought we were done with this."

Her stare is penetrating but there's no mistaking her vulnerability now, not with the way she's wrapped her arms around herself.

"I have given all I can give you, Sherlock, more than is smart really, and I am _tired_."

"I know-"

"I understand, intellectually, why you did what you did." Molly said quietly, "But I don't know that I have the strength to discuss it."

"But-"

"It hurt, Sherlock." Her lips tremble, and she has to pause to press them together, "I thought you were being mean at first, just...joking, but I found out the truth. We're friends,and you were trying to help. So, can we just leave it?"

"What do you mean 'leave it'?" Sherlock wants to know, striding around the counter so that she has to look up at him when he asks, "You want to pretend our conversation never happened?"

"Yes."

"No." His reaction is instantaneous, spoken with grim determination.

"Why?" Molly asks angrily, and in that moment her eyes glitter with tears, with a look of betrayal. "I don't want to discuss it, and you don't need to keep it. Just a bit of useless sentiment, right? So why can't you just do it this once, for me?"

And then, something seems to dawn on her, something Sherlock can tell he will not like.

"You can just delete it from your hard drive, can't you?" She says, and it's not a question because they both know she's right.

"Molly." He says her name, but they both understand that he's saying no.

"You can, you _could_." She presses, and then, "There are so many more important things to remember, right? Facts, dates, _things_."

"Nothing is more important than that phone call." He tries to explain.

"But why?" She shakes her head, eyes bright and uncomprehending, "That makes _no sense_ , Sherlock. Why would you possibly want to keep that memory?!"

"Because I _meant it_!"

Sherlock does not meant to yell, to raise his voice at all, but the more she had spoken, convinced that they should just delete the memory, the more agitated he had become.

He _could_ delete it.

But he _does_ _not_ _want to_.

"I know it's not what either of us expected." He continues albeit a bit more slowly, finding himself speaking in a sudden startling silence, "But I will not be deleting it."

Shaking his head, finding his hands shaking as well, he sighs, "You may not want to discuss it, but deleting it is out of the question. I _will. not. do. it_. And there's nothing you, or Mycroft or even _John_ can do to change that."

Leaning down so that they can be on eye level, Sherlock pauses to really look at her.

"I meant what I said to you. But more than that, I _felt_ it. And that is not something that happens often."

Swallowing hard, he hesitates only a second longer before offering a small self-mocking smile, "You, of all people, should know that."

And without another word, he turns and leaves.

It is only when Molly goes to close the door a moment later, still too stunned to speak, that she realizes Sherlock has forgotten his coat and scarf in his hurry.


	4. Healing

AN: Hello my lovelies - here is the fourth and final chapter of this little fic.

For those curious, here are the two pieces of music (instrumental, violin) that I was listening to when writing.

Bifu – Somei Satoh & Hillary Hahn & Memories – Michiru Oshima & Hilary Hahn

I hope you enjoy! Thanks so much for reading!

* * *

Molly gathers her courage for almost three hours before she has enough to carry her to 221B. It helps that she has his coat and scarf, an anchor for her feelings when she wavers at the main entrance.

Mrs. Hudson is not there, but the door has been left unlocked, and so she lets herself in. Stepping lightly past the ground floor unit, she slowly climbs the stairs, slowing with each successive step.

He's playing his violin.

It sounds different than usual, but its not just the instrument; she knows his belongings were burned in the fire that engulfed their flat. The song is unfamiliar.

Knowing him as she does, she has heard countless compositions wrought from his fingertips. Some are renditions of famous pieces, Bach mostly, but he has also been known to create his own. John received a piece for his wedding to Mary, and though they never spoke of it, there was another tune he played every so often that made her wonder if Sherlock had once suffered a broken heart.

This time however, the meaning, the _feeling_ behind his work is harder to identify.

Leaving the coat and scarf on the free coat hook in the hall, Molly creeps through the side door into the kitchen, saying nothing to interrupt him.

Ad so he continues to play.

Low and soothing, the violin is not an instrument that naturally lent itself to such deep tones, but in Sherlock's hands the sound seems to swell like a deep ocean wave. Gradual, building with that inevitable tidal pull, Molly closes her eyes, leaning against the doorway as the music moves through her.

Up and up it carries her, and with it the undercurrent of something there just beneath that ocean wave. It is not the heartbreak of his other song, the emotion is not nearly as sharp, the edge not as keen. But neither is it a light and airy note.

There is a _weight_ , a power to that undertow, one that has come from realization of that power, of what the wave can do.

Still, Molly allows it to carry her off, to crash around her ankles as if she were at the beach and follow it further down the shore, each time edging just a bit further from the safety of the sand towards open water.

Lapping at her legs, drawing her further in, it is an eternal dance, and though it is one that shifts, it never works against her. There is a restraint there, as if it knows its own strength and has tempered it through that current which lies beneath the surface of the wave.

The song, the waves, continue to flow around her, supporting her up until that final refrain, and when she finally opens her eyes, she finds that she has moved towards him over the course of the song.

Now there is nothing between them.

"New composition?" She asks as the last note fades away, unable to handle the almost mournful quality of it as it hangs in the air.

"Two weeks." The answer is short, uneasy, and he does not look at her, "I wrote it, composed it, two weeks ago."

Then, because he cannot help his curiosity, he asks, "How did you know?"

"Know what?" Her brows furrow.

"This song, it's new, but only Mycroft can tell which ones are actual songs, compositions, and which ones are just me...thinking."

He turns to look at her when she remains quiet for a while.

"Molly?"

"I suppose I just know you better than most." She says after a time, and there is no apology in her voice now, no excuses for the affection she has kept in safe harbour close to her heart.

"Any idea about what I should call this one?" He asks.

"Don't you have a name for it already?" She wants to know, "Something practical."

"Not yet."

Again, short. And she glances from him back to where she's left the coat and scarf hanging in the hallway.

"I think that was the first time you've ever run away from me." She says after a moment, "Maybe we should call it, 'When Roles Reverse.'"

"No." He wrinkles his nose, shakes his head as he sets the violin down, "Too flowery."

"Song for Sherlock's Thoughts?" She ventures.

"Closer, better." He sighs, running his hand absently through his hair as he thinks, "And I was not running away."

Her brows rise, "Oh?"

"It was a very carefully considered action. I wanted you to come here, and the coat and scarf seemed a reasonable excuse. You've always been polite that way, waiting for an invitation."

He looks at her then, blue eyes bright and arresting, "You do not need an invitation Molly Hooper, and yet I could not think of how to offer you one until just then."

"Why?" She asked.

"Because we're friends, but we could be _more_ than that. _Maybe_."

He looks lost then, as lost as she feels, and Molly steps closer to gently take his hand, to squeeze it in support.

"I don't need promises or declarations from you, Sherlock."

"My declaration from earlier, _from the call_ , still stands." Sherlock says sharply, "I'm just not clear on the rest of it. I may need _time_."

"I'm very good at being patient." Molly responds, "Better than I should be, actually."

It is Sherlock's turn to gently squeeze her hand in support.

"I know."

Not a second later, other words follow.

"Partita for Molly Hooper."

It takes her a full second to realize what he's saying, that he's finally settled on a name for his piece, on _her_ name.

"I'm going to have to look up what a 'partita' is, Sherlock." She warns.

He shakes his head, dismissing it in an instant, "The other part is the important bit."

She smiles then, sensing that their discussion is done for now. Their relationship was not built in the course of a day, the new road they walk will not be crossed in one either.

"I'm glad we were able to talk, Sherlock." She says earnestly as she takes a step back to leave, "Feel free to ring me if you need anything. I promise I'll be there."

Turning to go, she's stopped by his hand on her arm, his rough sound of protest.

"Don't feel like you need an invitation." He says quietly, thumb brushing the tender skin on her wrist, "Come by the flat whenever you like."

"Even when you don't need my help to solve a case? Molly said with a teasing smile, turning towards him when he makes no move to release his gentle hold on her.

"Whenever you like, Molly Hooper. _I meant it_."

He swallows hard but doesn't say more, makes no mention of the very specific grammatical error he's allowed himself to make. Rather his expression grows increasingly more serious until Molly's own lips quirked into a tender expression.

Raising her hand to cup his cheek, she nods, "I understand. I will."

His own lips ease into a smile then, and with just a slight tilt of his head, he turns to kiss her open palm.

"Thank you."

The words were spoken on a sigh, a happy sound that matches the easing of tension in his shoulders. And in response she laughs, a light and breathless thing that is carried easily by her own happiness, so bright she feels as if she might burst.

And so they both promised to _try._


End file.
